“I have classes Saturday morning, but I’ll be back after that unless there’s a game or something.”
He smirks. “Saturday classes? Sounds like an awesome time.” I don’t have a comeback, so he keeps talking. “Whatever. Weekends are what really matter, right?” His voice is desperate, like a wannabe’s, which he’s not.
It’s tempting to join the world of the living with someone other than my father. I don’t know what I’m going to say until I say it: “Wanna see a movie tonight?”
“Can’t. My parents are having some lame welcome-home-even-though-we’re-the-ones-who-sent-you-away-in-the-first-place dinner. Tomorrow?”
“I’m going to a funeral.”
His eyes bug out, but I wave him off. “My tutor’s mom. I never even met the lady. How about Thursday?”
“Great, but you’ll have to pick me up. I can’t drive till I’m nineteen.” He winks to show there’s no hard feelings, then leans in for a kiss good-bye. I turn so he’ll catch my cheek. He settles for it.
I’m not worth his forgiveness, but he hasn’t figured that out yet.
Brady
It’s tough to build on being a Republican businessman allergic to penicillin, so running is really my only option to Dr. White’s challenge of fostering a passion.
I’m training for the Boston Marathon next spring. To qualify, I need a time of less than three hours and twenty minutes at the race in Quebec. That’s under an eight-minute mile for twenty-six consecutive miles. After a week and a half of training I ran a nine-minute mile for ten miles, so I have work to do. I’ve read several articles that say the type of training I need, in the five weeks I have to do it, can’t be done. My confidence could use an impossible accomplishment right about now.
People often run in someone’s memory or to promote a cause. I’ve been envisioning myself crossing the finish line with the tagline RUNNING FOR SUICIDE. Maddy laughs with me on that one. The sound is unmistakable, knocking against my skull, like she’s running next to me. Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I indulge the fantasy that we’re in this together, that after Quebec and Boston we’ll travel the world running marathons.
Every day, about three miles in, I pass Wellesley College. I consider it penance. For two years I believed Maddy volunteered here to pass time and thrived, when really she came for fulfillment and failed. Usually I nod my head to pay respect, but today I veer off the sidewalk toward the library as though someone called my name. It’s too late to stop Maddy, but I can stand in her final spot and beg her memory’s forgiveness. How did I let work swallow me whole? If only I had been there, in that moment, to yell, “THIS CHOICE IS THE ONLY THING HAPPENING THAT IS PERMANENT. I CAN CHANGE.”
A JAG#2 vanity plate brings me to a halt—Kara’s dad’s car. What the hell is Todd Anderson doing here? Compelled as I am to atone, I won’t do it in the presence of a man who once questioned how three people manage to fit in a house that’s only six thousand square feet. I turn back toward Route 9, but not before catching a glimpse of Todd with a woman I don’t know. He presses low on the small of her back, guiding her to the passenger seat. I feel sorry for Christie, but not surprised. There’ve been long running rumors about the interesting interworkings of that marriage. Maddy never let Eve spend the night there. My general understanding is that faithfulness isn’t revered by either spouse.
The rest of my run I’m overtaken by the possibility Maddy had an affair. That’d explain everything. There was a journal entry about a professor she met while having lunch on a bench overlooking the lake on campus. Maddy claimed she forced my name into the conversation early, as much to remind herself as enlighten him. That’s not exactly a strong statement of loyalty. She went on and on about how marriage doesn’t mean you’ll never be attracted to another man, but rather that you respect your partner so much you’d never jeopardize what you built over such a fleeting inclination. She signed off claiming she’d take her lunch elsewhere moving forward, but who knows? Maybe it was the start of something.
By mile eight I have officially chucked Maddy in the same dirt pile as Todd Anderson, but by mile ten I acknowledge I’m being unfair. So she talked to someone intriguing … I can’t pretend I’ve never had a conversation that left me wanting more. And Maddy wrote she was enthralled because the man asked so many questions. It’s a fair stab. I only covered the basics. What did you do today? How’d it go?
It’s amazing, really. My career—the entirety of my professional success—is founded on my ability to drill down, to understand every situation with specificity. My big claim to fame was precisely this sort of attention to detail. HT was about to buy a company that boasted twenty thousand customers. The client list was the primary motivation for the acquisition, so I asked random questions to multiple people during due-diligence meetings. How many customers bought additional software in the past twelve months? How many customers have you lost in that same period? Is it easy to find references? I uncovered a bleak picture: a base declining more rapidly than sales accounted for, no incremental business, and poor overall customer satisfaction. We avoided the train wreck. Our competitor did not. The acquisition ultimately brought both companies down, and Jack personally thanked me. It was the catalyst for my promotion to CFO. Why have I zipped that skill up in my briefcase before coming home at night?
I need to dig in more with Eve, but asking teenagers questions is a fine art. Ask too many and you’re overbearing; ask the wrong ones and you don’t get it; ask the right ones at the wrong time and you’re annoying. It’s like walking on the edge of a cliff that Eve occasionally elects to push me off. I never know what will set her off. Last night I tried to confirm she was certain about Exeter because the full tuition is due.
“You think I’m a flake?” she replied. It was so hypersensitive that I laughed. “Is it funny when you offend people?” she snapped.
If I had a white flag I would’ve waved it. “Whoa there,” I said.
“Whoa there? I’m not a horse, Dad.”
“Sorry I asked,” I said, uncertain why I was apologizing. “I’ll mail the check.” I left the room even though the show I’d been watching wasn’t over.
How could Eve flip from the loving daughter I watched fireworks with to such a crazy lady? Maddy’s voice popped into my head: It’s that time of month. I have to give myself credit. For a man without a creative bone in his body, I have Maddy’s phrasing and sense of humor down pat. Reconstructing my dead wife is the most inspired thing I’ve ever done.
Thirteen miles complete and I’ve come full circle. There’s no other man to stick this mess on. Everything I provided Maddy was overshadowed by everything I held back. I thought it made good sense to treat work separate from home, but it meant my family only had access to half of me. I go inside to take a shower and wash off my shame.
CHAPTER TEN